


The Gym Teacher and the Carpenter

by i_amtheoutlaw



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 20:13:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_amtheoutlaw/pseuds/i_amtheoutlaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You know what Sherlock asked for on his eleventh birthday?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gym Teacher and the Carpenter

“Sherlock, dearie, I’m going to kick your skinny little arse.”

John looks up from his laptop screen upon hearing the woman’s voice. At first he almost thinks its Mrs. Hudson after one to many cups of punch again. However, the voice is a deep flow that, even in her drunkest, their landlady could not pull off. _This can’t be good,_ John thinks.

As John listens to clunky footsteps on their stairs, the lady keeps going, “honestly, I had to break into your flat . . . who lets their own— _oh.”_

John finds himself the object of a short, curious woman’s eyes.

“And who are you?” She asks with a brow raised before John can find words.

John really should spit the question back at her, because this is his flat, after all. However, for some reason he finds himself tongue-tied and stuttering, “I’m—John—John Watson.”

The older dark-haired woman nods as she walks over and sprawls herself out on John’s couch. 

“Where’s Sherlock?” She asks. 

“Um . . . I’m not . . . quite sure?” John drawls out. “Would you like me to text him?”

“Oh rubbish . . . let’s surprise him, it’ll be way more fun.” She smirks.

John can’t help it, “you really think you’ll be able to surprise Sherlock? Do you even _know_ him?”

She laughs, “I’m his mother, John. Are you sure you should be in his flat if you don’t even know who his mother is?” 

John just stares down at the lady who now has him pinned under a raised brow. _Sherlock’s mummy,_ he processes the information, thinking, _wow._

It’s hard to believe. They look nothing alike. The woman stretched out on his couch is short, can’t be more than five foot two inches, and she is also all torso, not to mention her dress; trainers, gym shorts, and a tucked in tee shirt with bright colors covering the front. 

Again, John finds himself stuttering, “Well, um, I live here.”

She springs off the couch, “you what?”

“I, um, live here?”

After staring at him for a few seconds she calmly asks, “you’re really _living_ with my son?”

He nods.

“Blessed,” She says, while throwing herself back on the couch. Snorting, she adds, “suppose I should have _deduced_ that. Sherlock’s living situation has never looked so . . . so tidy before.” 

John doesn’t know what to say, he’s never heard someone else, besides him, joke so casually about Sherlock’s gifts . . . like they’re actually gifts. He finds he really likes it. 

The door picks that moment to swing open, and footsteps are quickly flying up the steps. 

“Jaaaawn,” Sherlock bellows, “I have found us the perfect—Mummy?”

Sherlock stands perplexed in the doorway as his mother springs up and wraps him in a tight embrace. 

“Mason Sherlock Holmes,” She starts, not sounding mad in the least, “I’m mad at you.”

Sherlock keeps his eyes trained on his mother’s hair, “you’re . . . you went back to brown I see.”

She nods into his chest then pulls away, “you always said it looked better.” 

“I always said it looks more natural, that’s it, you know the blonde looked fine.”

Sherlock’s smiling down at his mum, and seems to of forgot John’s presence at all, which is okay, because John’s still processing that Sherlock gave someone a compliment. Mummy or not, John never thought he’d see the day. Until his mother says, “So Sherlock, you didn’t think it important enough to tell me you had a new flat mate?”

Sherlock’s eyes snap to John then he turns back to his mum, “And you didn’t think it important enough to tell me Merlin’s living with you again?” Sherlock spits back.

“Oh hush, I was going to tell you, and he’s going by Emmett now.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

\--

_“Mother_ . . . honestly, you cannot keep supporting him like this,” Sherlock says once they’re all seated.

“I’m not supporting him. You know as well as I that he has plenty of money, he’s actually been helping me out.” 

“Even more reason for him to move out, a wealthy grown man should not be living with his mummy.”

“Oh . . . bullocks, Sherlock. Utter bullocks. I know what this is really about . . . stop your pouting.”

“Pouting? Please mum, I’m not _Mycroft!”_

“You sure are acting like him.”

John waits, gaping at the scene before him. Sherlock and his mum. Arguing. Or . . . or . . . whatever this can be called. 

Bickering maybe. Yeah, bickering.

At least it is until Sherlock gets compared to Mycroft. That _always_ ends a bickerment and starts a full fledge fight.

And fights with Sherlock are worse than fights with anyone else. John doesn’t care who it is, as long as it’s not Sherlock, its better. 

However, Sherlock simply glares and changes the subject, asking if his mother would like some tea. 

She asks if they have any coffee, and Sherlock groans, claiming he’d make a trip to the store.

He actually leaves, but John won’t believe it until he’s returned, box of coffee in hand. 

\--

Sherlock’s mum loves to talk, and meeting her is probably the greatest thing that has happened to John since he met Sherlock. That may be bloody terribly sad, but he can’t bring himself to care right now. 

John’s learns that her name is Denise, but she would rather he call her coach Dee, because pretty much everyone does. This leads to learning that coach Dee acquired her name because she’s a gym teacher, and a basketball coach. And volleyball. And soccer. 

It’s the most ridiculous thing John has _ever_ heard.

He always pictured Sherlock’s parents as scientists or police officers or government officials. Never once had he considered that the mother of the great Sherlock Holmes could be a gym teacher. So, of course, he has to ask, “And Sherlock’s father?”

“Oh, David,” She sighs, “absolutely the most infuriating man I’ve ever met.”

“Bit like your boys then?” John jokes.

She laughs but says, “oh no. Completely different type of infuriating, that one is.”

She goes on to explain that David and her met her freshman year of high school, saying the man was intolerable even then, claiming she still doesn’t know why she agreed to marry him right out of college. 

“It certainly wasn’t for his money,” she jokes, snorting to herself, in the most unposh way, and John finds himself loving that Sherlock’s mum is a real person like that. “Honestly, what possessed me to marry a fine arts major is beyond me.”

“Fine Arts?” John sputters, chocking on his tea a bit. “Sherlock’s dad is an . . . artist?”

“He is . . .” she says, then goes on to tell John how Dave’s concentration was ceramics, but he could never really make any money that way, so now he’s a full time—free-lance—carpenter. 

A bloody carpenter. 

\--

Eventually, John asks, trying to avertedly learn something about Sherlock’s childhood, “so I bet Mycroft was a handful?”

Coach Dee laughs like John just told the funniest joke she’s ever heard.

“Oh please? Mycroft? He was practically boring compared to Sherlock!”

John grins. She seems to catch unto his true interest, and sighs, saying, “I’m not going to tell you anything I know Sherlock would find embarrassing—“

“Wait,” John cuts her off, asking, “Sherlock gets embarrassed?”

She laughs, “He’ll never show it, though.”

“So what other things can you tell me then?” John pyres, his head already filled with ideas.

“You know what he asked for on his eleventh birthday?” She asks, catching John off guard.

“What? A microscope?”

“No . . . a book called, ‘Down the hole.”

“What the hell is that?”

“Well, that’s exactly what I said, until the lady at the bookstore pointed me in the direction of the erotica section . . . turned out it’s a book about two boys who work in a mine together and fall in love.”

John sputters again, actually spitting out his tea this time, “what!”

“I think it was his way of coming out . . .”

“You said he was eleven!” John accuses.

“Its Sherlock, of course he was eleven,” She counters. “Nearly gave Dave a heart attack when he opened it. You should have seen the cover art.”

\--

Sherlock’s footsteps come racing up the steps about thirty minutes later, and John is smiling like loon. He can’t help it. Sherlock burst into the flat, paper coffee cup in hand, and announces, “I couldn’t find the vanilla you like anywhere and—“

Sherlock cuts himself off and looks around the room.

“Where is she?” He snarls at John.

“Oh, she said she had a game and she was just stopping by really, to tell you they’re having a family dinner next week and she expects you to be there,” John explains, still smiling, “don’t worry she gave me all the info.”

Sherlock’s entire face turns red, and he rages a loud, “that woman!” Before throwing the coffee across the room and storming away, disappearing down the hall. 

John’s still smiling.

\--

It isn’t until a few hours later that John realizes Sherlock wasn’t mad that his mother left without telling him. Sherlock was mad because she managed to leave without him realizing it, and John now officially praises the ground that woman walks on, and John falls asleep that night wondering if she would teach him how to do that?


End file.
